Undercover 101
by Snarkcasm
Summary: Short Avengers casefic with Natasha and Clint being badasses. Will contain other members of the Avengers and/or the Marvel universes but mainly focuses on Natasha and Clint being super spies both together and apart.
1. Undercover 101

**Author**: Snarkcasm  
**Rating**: Teen for later canon violence  
**Summary**: Avengers casefic with Black Widow and Hawkeye being BAMFs. Nothing more, nothing less  
**Chapter Summary:** Natasha has to go undercover with one Steve Rogers. She is not amused by the peanut gallery  
**Warning(s)**: Don't ask questions, just read. Could be read as pre-slash Steve/Tony because I DO WHAT I WANT!  
**Disclaimer**: I do not own any rights to the Avengers, Marvel or any of the characters mentioned in the story. This is a story of fiction and I make no money from it.  
**Author's Note:**I got my idea for this from a tumblr post. Thank you so much, fuzzyraccoon. Located here: fuzzyraccoon(dot)tumblr(dot)com/post/24393414696

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_Undercover 101_

He's cute. If you happen to like the wholesome, clean cut Americana he represents. And she doesn't. She _doesn't_. She's Russian, and while she might only feel the slightest patriotic stirrings at the bottom of a bottle nowadays, she still remembers the Cold War and the horrors of reconstruction under a corrupt government.

"Status report."

She leans into the table, hands folded under her chin. "Target negative. Still scanning for visual," she grits out, chomping an already mangled straw between straight, white teeth.

"At least _act _like a couple," comes Coulson's voice from both their ear buds. He sounds exasperated—rare for him to show emotion—and Captain Steve Rogers looks chagrined. His blue, blue eyes drift to the table cloth, and he drums his fingers in front of him. He's a puppy, she finally decides, having tried to figure out which animal he reminds her of all night.

She tucks a strand of brunette hair behind her ear, and he follows her movement, fond.

"Like they could." One scoff from Tony Stark had Rogers bristling. Natasha would have found it hilarious if she didn't feel the urge to punch Stark often herself. "I mean, why choose _them _for this assignment? Captain Goody-Two-Shoes probably can't lie to save his life and Black Widow is as friendly as a block of ice. A block of angry, angry, vodka-soaked ice."

"Jealous, Stark?" She spits out the straw and gives Rogers a reassuring look. She can't tell if he's freaked out because she's telegraphing her moves or because she's currently cupping his chin. She hopes for the latter; she might be a heartless assassin, but she is still a woman, and his blush is precious.

"_Of him_? I'm sorry, Widow, you're badass and all, but—"

"Not of him," she cuts in. She wants to hear about Stark's latest conquests as much as she would like bamboo slivers shoved under her fingernails. She giggles a bit too coquettishly for her liking, but Rogers—bless him—is taking her hand and twining their fingers together.

There is blissful radio silence from there on in.

Before she can gloat, her eye is trained on a shadowy figure. She locks eyes with Rogers, and he nods. Once.

"Target acquired. Going dark from here on in."

"Good luck." Coulson. Amused. Natasha smirks and grabs Steve's hand. The camera in the back corner, so focused on them a minute ago, whirls away. She almost rolls her eyes.

"Ready?"

He nods again, giving her fingers a squeeze that she, if she were of a different mind, could mistake for tenderness.


	2. One Night in Bahraich

******Author**: Snarkcasm**  
****Rating**: Teen for later canon violence**  
****Summary**: Avengers casefic with Black Widow and Hawkeye being BAMFs. Nothing more, nothing less**  
****Chapter Summary:** Hawkeye calls in the Calvary. **  
****Warning(s)**: Don't ask questions, just read.**  
****Disclaimer**: I do not own any rights to the Avengers, Marvel or any of the characters mentioned in the story. This is a story of fiction and I make no money from it.**  
****Author's Note: **I got my idea from this amazing tumblr site. This person is _amazing_: arrows-and-duct-tape(dot)tumblr(dot)com

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_One Night in Bahraich and the World's Your Oyster_

He ducks under the burnt-out shell of a taxi, clutching his useless left arm, his bow shattered in two at his feet. Gunshots continue to ring out in the still of the humid desert night air, and he flinches as one bullet whizzed past his ear. Nothing stirs in the wake of the bullets; he doesn't expect it to. Gritting his teeth, he shuffles from his compromised spot. One bullet catches on his calf. Another too close to his dick for his comfort.

He loses them in a narrow alleyway, clearing the half-rusted chain link fence just as easily with one arm as he would with two. He limps into a shop, the occupants talking fast, birdlike in alarm. Foreign words wash over him as he slams his bloodied fist into the counter. "Phone?" He mimes a telephone as best he can. This is the last time, he swore, the last time he takes an assignment in a place where he doesn't know the language.

The shopkeeper looks at him with wide, brown eyes and points to an old, corded phone tucked into the corner. Clint digs into his pocket and slaps down a rupee. "Thank you."

He stares at the phone before closing his eyes, shoving the last of his coins in the slot, and dialing.

"_Toronto Sperm Bank—you spank it, we bank it! How may we serve you today?" _Clint flinches at the manic voice on the end of the line. He's the last person he should have called, which makes him the best person to call.

"I've been blown."

"_Congrats on becoming a real boy, Hawkeye_," the voice muses.

The cheap phone squeaks under his grip. "I need your help."

A long, low whistle meets that statement. _"Where are you."_ Not a question. Serious for once. Clint rattles off coordinates in cipher, vision blurring but relief spreading just under his skin._ "Be there in ten, Hotpants. Try not to bleed to death before the real fun begins."_ The call cuts off but not after a loud kissy noise. Clint snorts and slumps into a chair. He has time to kill and waves over one of the huddled wait staff.

"Ye-yes?" The unfortunate waiter stumbles over both his feet and his English as he approaches the corner. Clint tries to smooth things over with a smile, but he fears that that scares the poor man even more.

He takes out a billfold of crumpled banknotes and painstakingly counts out ten 1000 rupee bills, sliding them over. "Give me whatever clean fabric you have, a bowl of water, and a first aid kit." The waiter clutches the bills to his chest, nodding frantically. Clint closes his eyes and tries not to die.

He jolts out of his light doze to screams. It's hilarious how damnations sound alike in all languages. He cracks open one eye to blue skin.

"Nightcrawler."

The blue-skinned mutant inclines his head. "Hawkeye, I believe this is yours." He gestures to a grinning Wade Wilson before teleporting, leaving behind a dark, inky residue.

"Demon, demon!"

Wade's grin grows wider. "Just like old times, eh, Bahawkadonk?"

Clint sacrifices one smile as they are ceremoniously thrown out on their asses. Wade laughs, long and loud, throwing his arms up. "So, who's after your well-shaped, nicely-toned ass today, Sweet Cheeks?"

"Drug ring in Nepal, allegedly funded by Prey. Thought I shook them over the mountains, but they followed." He lifts up his left shoulder as if to say 'and that's how it goes'. "Tenacious bastards."

"Sounds like my kinda party, Barton. Why does S.H.I.E.L.D. always give _you_ the fun assignments while _I'm_ sitting pretty playing Galaga? Granted, I am very, _very_ pretty, but still, a guy can only take so much nerdy UST from Banner and Stark before he explodes or bursts into manly, oh-so-American tears like Cap."

Clint swipes at a sluggishly bleeding cut on his forehead. Fun, yeah. And he's not touching the merc's last statement with a ten-foot pole. "Next time, you'll get to trail drug smugglers across the desert for days and get shot in multiple places, I promise."

"I knew I was your favorite!" Wade coos, disturbingly. Within the space of a breath, he brandishes a large, sharp knife from somewhere and chucks it to his right down an abandoned alley. "We've got company," he says over the dying howl of whoever's wearing Patrice as a head ornament. As one, the group that had been tailing them since the restaurant bleeds out of the woodwork, guns pointed directly at their hearts.

The merc hands over one of his bandoliers and a semi-automatic.

"You big softie." Clint's scoffing, but he's quick to holster the ammunition and check the solid heft of the gun in his non-dominant hand.

"What can I say? It's a curse to be this warm-hearted." And with that, he takes out his two swords, sets down a signed picture of parallel-universe Bea Arthur, unravels a roll of duct tape, and wreaks unholy hell.

Clint's at his six, squeezing out bullets judiciously. All his shots are bull's-eyes, but that is nothing new. Mid-fight, Wade gives his swords for just the duct tape, bashing people in the skulls with the heavy roll and taping hands to foreheads. Soon they are down to one man, hogtied at Wade's feet.

"Stop hitting yourself, stop hitting yourself—"

"Deadpool, hurry up!"

"Stop hitting yourself, stop hitting yourself—"

With a grunt of frustration, the sniper puts a bullet between the eyes of the last of their would-be assassins. Wade pouts and drops the corpse, picking up his swords and tucking Bea Arthur back down his pants. He glances around at the gleeful carnage, hands on his hips. "Sooo…everybody dead?"

"Seems like."

"Awesome. Hey, y'know what I could go for? A chimichanga. Let's go get a chimichanga. Chimichanga, chimichanga, chimichanga, enchilada."

Clint follows the congo-ing mercenary with a faint, fond grin on his face.


	3. Night of the Hunter

**Author**: Snarkcasm**  
Rating**: Teen for canon violence  
**Summary**: Avengers casefic with Black Widow and Hawkeye being BAMFs. Nothing more, nothing less.  
**Chapter Summary**:Various Prompts because I like to switch it up! Fairly angsty folks. Sorry about that (not really).  
**Warning(s)**: Don't ask questions, just read.  
**Disclaimer:I** do not own any rights to the Avengers, Marvel or any of the characters mentioned in the story. This is a story of fiction and I make no money from it.  
**Author's** **Note**: I might be working off a prompt list from here on in. If anyone has a prompt they want me to fill, drop me a line.

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_I Must Be Lonely _

Prompt #1: 2 A.M.

They drag their battle-broken bodies through debris. They drag their battle-broken bodies up hills and down sewers and through landmines, drifting from mission to mission without any real rest or relaxation. More than a job, this is the life they willingly choose. As everything goes to shit around them, they are content in the fact that they might not be able to leave but they signed their souls away with eyes wide open.

They lay, legs and arms entwined, bruised and bleeding and sharing the same breath, content in the fact that they have lived to see yet another day.

_/_

_To Know You're Alive_

Prompt #21: Rise

Natasha falls in mid-battle, mouth open in a perfect 'o' as she clutches her abdomen. He's up too high—too damn high—to do anything but fire arrow after arrow. He doesn't realize he's wordlessly screaming until Steve tells him gently to stop as he vaults over cars and bashes people away with his shield, fighting his way to her. Both Thor and Tony circle above the good Captain, flinging away any and all aerial attacks as the Hulk tears through the ground army, drawing attention away from the wounded.

Clint is still on point, still doing his job, but even he can't deny shedding a tear when he sees the gentle rise and fall of her chest. As long as she's still breathing, she can, and will still, fight.

_/_

_Let's Go to the Zoo_

Prompt #11&12: animal, zoo

"No. Nonono_**no**_." Clint is stuck on repeat, horrified, as some _idiot_, soon to be murdered out of pity as _he was too stupid to live_, gave Deadpool a mission located in a zoo. A _zoo_. Natasha is by his side, still-faced but no less horrified, as the news reporter on scene cowers behind what was once the tilt-a-whirl, shouting on and on about the intensive damage sustained as a masked psycho freed all the petting zoo animals and set about terrorizing all the children by holing himself up in the popcorn maker machine and somehow rigging it up to pit little kernels at all who came near.

_/_

_Table Manners with Deadpool_

Prompt #63: laugh

"And then, and then—Widow goes, 'That's not his spleen, that's his liver!'" Deadpool cackles, viciously spearing his enchilada so that all the melted cheese oozes out.

All the silverware clatters at once. Bruce looks green about the face as he covers his mouth and flees the scene.

_/_

_Regimes Fall Everyday_

Prompt #43: empire

Warning: Major character death

She tends not to weep over trivial things. Empires crumble and people die every day, so why is it that she finds herself tracing the etchings long after the sermons have ended?

_Clint Barton_

_1971-2014_

_Comrade at Arms_

_/_

_Red Thread_

Prompt #9: connection

He needs this. They both do. She touches his forehead, lips, chest with surprising understanding. He reaches for her with a choked off sob, tangling his calloused fingers in her hair. "Did I—?"

"Shush," she says gently, digging her nails into his biceps. "What did I say?"

He hisses but not in pain. "Make me forget."

She smiles.

"Gladly."

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_Home on the Range_

Prompt #23: Range

He notches, inhales, and hits the target. Dead center. Aim, steady, breathe. Shoot. It becomes mechanical, familiar and as involuntary as his heart beating. He is in control. He has no control.

The bow is a solid weight in his hands. The quiver strap digs its grooved brand across his chest. The arrows are slender in his grip. For the longest time in his life, these were his only companions. His friends. His family. Things may be different now, but after a lifetime of getting his face shoved into the dirt, he can't let himself be.

Aim, steady, breathe. Shoot.

_/_

_Crossroads_

Prompt #15&34: duty, roads

"Natasha, don't ask me to do this." She doesn't look up from her black suitcase. "Natasha." He grabs her hand in mid-weapons check. He knows it's suicidal—knows that she always had the upperhand—but he can't let her do this. She violently starts, fingers clenching.

"'Tasha," he repeats softly, "You won't be coming back from this."

"I know."

"Let me come with you." He's not above begging, and the two of them together have made it out alive countless times before.

"I can't, Barton. You know that."

"I'm not letting you go—"

She looks at him sadly and cups his cheek. "It's not your decision." She pulls back her fist and hits him in the temple. He crumples at her feet, dead to the world. She brushes back his bangs and sentimentality makes her brush her lips against his forehead. "I'm sorry." She doesn't know what she's apologizing for, but she grabs her bag and soldiers on because that's all she knows.


End file.
